That Magnificent Brain
by nflunza
Summary: At the scene of a brutal assault on a London police constable, John and Sherlock make a world-altering discovery.


That Unique, Magnificent Brain

Holmes, of course, was the first to recognize it, but by then it was already too late. Not even an intellect as keen as Sherlock's could have been expected to assemble this puzzle while there was still time to stop it. Much of it was simply bad luck, poor information, lack of evidence. Luck was not with us that evening. But God knows, the bastard tried.

I returned from the shops to find Holmes as I often found him, sitting in his wingback chair with his eyes shut tight, listening intently to the police radio scanner on the shelf beside him. It was quiet at the moment, but that in no way lessened his intensity. Unsurprisingly he made no move to greet me or acknowledge my existence. I could almost hear his brain whirring. He was a marvel, and also damned annoying.

"Hello, John," I said. "Thanks for doing the shopping."

"Think nothing of it," I replied. "Happy to help."

He sighed. "If you insist on talking to yourself, could you do it outside? I'm listening to the scanner."

I began putting away the groceries. "It's not saying anything," I pointed out.

"It was. I suspect it will again soon." He opened his eyes. "It's been remarkably busy this evening."

As though on cue, the radio crackled to life, reporting an officer in need of medical assistance, with his attacker dead at the scene. The location of the stricken officer was relayed, and I noted that it was only a few blocks south of the flat we shared.

There was a large map of London pinned to the wall near Holmes' chair, with a number of areas marked in pencil. Holmes scanned it for a moment, then sat back and steepled his fingers over his clasped hands, pressed them to the bridge of his nose. A moment later he was up, grabbing his coat and moving swiftly to the door.

"Come along, John, I believe this fits the pattern."

I grabbed my windbreaker and shrugged into it hurriedly as I followed him down the stairs. "What pattern?"

He burst out the door and onto the street, ignoring my question. He thumbed his cell phone to life and spoke into it as we trotted south.

"Lestrade, it's Holmes. DO NOT let any of your men touch the body of man who assaulted your officer. I will be there in a few minutes." He paused, listening, impatience across his features. "Yes, and if you expect to ever understand WHY he was injured, you'll leave the body unmolested." He slipped the phone back into his pocket without waiting for a response.

"We need to pick up the pace," he said, running now with his great coat billowing out behind him. "I'm not certain the Inspector will wait this time."

I reiterated my earlier question, breathlessly this time as I was shamefully out of shape. "What pattern?"

He cut down an alley, then another, while I simply followed; I'd given up long ago trying to anticipate the routes through the city he would take.

"There have been a series of violent attacks reported tonight. Seemingly random, but all sharing the odd distinction of producing no victims or witnesses when the police arrive. Signs of struggle and blood have been found at several, which seems to rule out hoaxers, but not one victim has been found or has come forward." We turned up another gap between buildings, barely wide enough to be called an alley. "This attack on the policeman is the first tonight to leave a body behind and a live witness to report it."

"So," I huffed and puffed, "you think someone is systematically killing and cleaning up the evidence? Moriarty, or his people?"

Holmes slowed to a walk. Police cars were angled across the road just ahead, one officer already stringing up blue and white tape to define the crime scene. "I sincerely hope so."

I pulled a face. "Bored again already?"

He seemed taken aback. "No. But if it isn't Moriarty, then I fear it's something far worse."

Lestrade spotted our approach and strode quickly to meet us the police tape, which we ducked and continued past, forcing the Inspector to walk beside us.

"Holmes, I honestly don't see why you're interested in this case. Open and shut. That man," he gestured at the figure lying face down on the sidewalk a few metres away, "assaulted one of my officers, the officer fought him off, killing him in the process. The end."

"Why did the man attack your officer, Inspector? That's the interesting question."

Lestrade shrugged. "He was a nutter. According to Constable Peterson, the man limped out of that alley, there. Peterson approached him to see if he needed assistance, and the man attacked him. Peterson had to split his skull with his baton to put him down. Peterson was injured badly."

"Did the attacker have a weapon?" I asked.

"No. According to Peterson, the nutter was so intent on killing him, he used his teeth. Damn near tore his throat out. He had to whack him in the head several times to get him off, and accidentally killed him in the process." He spread his arms expansively. "No mystery."

"No," Holmes muttered sarcastically, "none at all."

He knelt by the body, studying it. The man wore a light gray suit, white shirt, black shoes. The man's skull was clearly fractured, blood and brain matter seeped from his left ear. His hands were empty, and I could see several long cuts to his left palm. Sherlock lifted the body's left arm, revealing several more cuts through the jacket and into the forearm. He rose and circled the body, squinting at the man's shoes. He pinched the fabric of the right trouser leg and his fingers came away rust-colored. He sniffed them and absently wiped them on the back of the man's suit jacket. He patted the man's pockets, then turned the body over, revealing it's front. A police sergeant beside me whispered, "Sonofabitch."

The body's face and mouth were smeared with fresh blood. The teeth were gritted, and thin strands of red gristle were visible clenched in the jaws. His chest and tie were spattered with blood. Holmes gingerly lifted the man's suit coat away from his chest, reached into the left inside pocket, then the right.

"Has anyone touched this body?"

"No," Lestrade replied. "We left it the way we found it, as you asked. Although I don't know why. You can see what happened, it fits Peterson's story perfectly."

Holmes stood, wiping his hands together briskly. "Yes, it does." He strode quickly away from the body and down the alley the Inspector had indicated. He shone a torch at the ground, scanning the refuse scattered there near the bins, then rejoined Lestrade and I near the body.

"Inspector, where has the constable been taken?"

"To Princess Grace."

Holmes began moving swiftly toward the police tape. "Radio your people and have Constable Peterson placed under guard."

"What?" exploded Lestrade. "Why? He's not a suspect. He's the victim."

"Yes, he is. And I need to speak with him immediately. The guards are for his protection."

Lestrade stood at the tape line as though it were a border he was unwilling to cross, as Holmes and I trotted to the corner. "He was hurt pretty badly; lost a lot of blood. There's a good chance he's already dead."

"In that case," Sherlock called as we rounded the corner, "Double the guard."

At the next street Holmes turned left and I followed, questions burning in my head. _Double the guard_? And, more pressingly, "Sherlock, isn't Princess Grace the other way?"

"Yes. We've got to get you back to the flat first."

"Why?"

"You need to pack." He glanced my way, saw my expression. "Doctor, tell me what you saw."

We'd done this before, dozens of times. It always ended badly for me, but nonetheless I soldiered on.

"The victim clearly suffered massive blunt force trauma to the skull, with skull fracturing severe enough to result in concavities at the left parietal with attendant bleeding and exposure of the dura. The face also suffered trauma, with a clearly broken nose and misshapenness of the face highly suggestive of a fractured or crushed right zygomatic arch."

"Good. What else?"

I sent my mind's eye back over the body. "There are a series of as many as three shallow lacerations to the left palm, and another three or four lacerations to the posterior aspect of the left forearm, which are highly suggestive of defensive wounds."

"Excellent. Shall we go back and tell Lestrade that Constable Peterson attacked the victim with a knife?"

"Obviously not. The knife wounds must have been suffered before the attack on Peterson. Maybe he was in shock, and thought the constable was his attacker."

"John, you get so close, then miss everything important." He closed his eyes a moment. "In addition to the wounds you've just described, there was also a deeper laceration across the anterior aspect of the fingers of the right hand, between the first and second knuckles, indicating that the victim attempted to grab the knife from his attacker. A deep stab wound in the right thigh led to massive blood loss that stained his pants and right shoe, probably due to the severing of the femoral artery."

"So, if hadn't had his head bashed in by the cop, he'd still be just as dead."

"No. He'd be slightly less dead." he deadpanned.

"You're talking gibberish." We had arrived at the flat. I blocked Holmes from opening the door. "What are you talking about, why do I have to pack, and what do you think is going on?"

"The man was wearing an expensive suit, shoes and tie, but had no ID or wallet. A band of lighter-colored skin near his left wrist indicates that he was wearing a watch until recently. His front pockets were turned out, and all pockets were empty. The seat of his trousers and the backs of his shoes were soiled with organic muck of the sort one finds surrounding trash bins. The tail of his shirt was rucked up, and there were abrasions to his lower back extending almost up to his shoulder blades. This tells us that he was attacked and stabbed in the alley I examined. He was backed against the wall, and he slid down it after the injury to his leg. His attacker took his wristwatch, emptied his pockets, and fled. If I had told Lestrade to have his men search the alley, I'm certain they would have found his wallet and his keys in a bin further down. But that would only have complicated matters and we frankly don't have the time. After his attacker fled, the man stood and walked out of the alley, dragging his right leg, leading to the scuffs and organic detritus packed into the seams at the toe of his right shoe."

"So, we know he was mugged. So it was in the alley. Why do I have to pack?"

"Did you notice how little blood there was from the head wound? The extensive blood stains soaking the right leg of his trousers, from thigh to foot? _Brown. _There is a large pool of equally brown blood in the alley. The leg wound was fatal, yes. He bled to death quickly. But he was stabbed two to three hours before he attacked the officer. Enough time for the blood to dry. He was already dead when the constable hit him. That's why you have to pack."

I stood, incredulous. "Madness."

"No. Evidence. Logic. The clues tell the tale, John."

"It's not possible." I said stubbornly, even as my mind sifted through the assembled clues and found no other explanation.

"No, it isn't. " he said, with surprising gentleness. "But it happened anyway. Please go pack. A bag for you and one for me. And call Harry, have her pack as well. If I'm just barking, we'll take a holiday, help me restore my sanity. If not, we'd do well to get the hell out of London."

He stepped away, flagged a taxi cab. "I'll be back in thirty minutes. No longer. If I'm not back in thirty, get Harry and go without me. Some idyllic country place you've always wanted to go. But _go_."

A black car pulled to the curb, and he opened the rear door.

"Holmes," I called.

He looked back, gentleness gone, all impatience again.

"I thought you said we had to eliminate the impossible."

He grinned. "I was wrong." And climbed into the cab and was gone.

I packed, and called Harry, and waited thirty minutes, then thirty minutes more. I tried his mobile, and got no answer. I tried Lestrade, and was shunted directly to voicemail. I tried 999, and received a pleasant recording telling me that all lines were currently engaged, but the Metropolitan Police Service and I were working together for a safer London.

The telly was full of jumbled reports of fires, rioting in Piccadilly Square, random outbreaks of violence throughout London. The police scanner was a cacophony of overlapping voices, some panicked, some angry, some confused, all of them scared. I went to my room and grabbed my pistol and while I was looking for an extra box of bullets, the lights went out.

I cursed silently and blundered around my room looking for a torch. Finding it, I then hunted for the ammunition.

I heard a noise from the sitting room. I switched off my light so as not to make myself a target, and waited for my night vision to adjust. Then, I crept out of my room.

A familiar shape stood facing out the window. Relief flooded through me.

"Sherlock! Where the devil have you been?"

He turned, and I saw the blood, black in the moonlight shining through the window. Saw the slack face, saw the eyes, empty of everything that made Holmes the man he was. That mind, that once held such promise, such potential benefit, drained now of any use beyond WALK EAT KILL. That unique, magnificent brain.

I think I can be forgiven if I hesitated, only for an instant, before squeezing the trigger and blowing it out the back of his skull.


End file.
